


deliverance

by ewagan



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Epistolary, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewagan/pseuds/ewagan
Summary: Perhaps this is what faith really is, what faith truly looks like. Unfaltering, unwavering.Our Deliverance.





	deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> this all horribly started months ago when abba's fernando came on and i died, shortly after i spent a week wailing my way through the game.
> 
> ty meg for making this fic happen through copious amounts of enabling. to loving our trash sons. <3

“Are you ready?” Clive pulls his horse up next to Fernand, turning his head to survey the company of men. The courtyard is bustling with people making ready for journeys to various parts of the kingdom, the soft nickering of horses as they are taken to the stables.

“It’s only a short mission.” Fernand’s smile is amused. The rest of their squad is almost ready, stowing the last of their supplies and mounting their horses.

They move out, horses in a line. Fernand follows behind Clive, who is leading them this time as they head out to the southern villages. There have been complaints of bandits, making trade difficult and the famine even more so.

Still, Fernand is in good spirits. Things are well enough despite the reduced harvests, and he's just returned to the castle after a week home. His younger sister made him a good luck charm and extracted a promise to visit soon, while his elder sister is to be married soon.

“So I hear Clair made it into training.” he says. Clive winces, and Fernand laughs. He thinks Clair will do well enough, if only because Clive is so respected amongst the knights. In her own right, Clair is formidable, having spent years chasing after both him and Clive. She's a little spoiled, but he supposes she will grow out of it in time.

“Let's hope she survives it, shall we?” Clive's smile is rueful. Fernand lets out another snort of amusement.

“Let's hope training survives _her_.”

 

_You have this way about you, that makes people want to trust you, believe that you will do your best for them. Maybe I was the one who talked about revolution and dreamed of a different future, but you were the one to take it and make it something real, something tangible. You were the one people flocked to, the one people believed in. You were the one who stood in the throne room and rallied the knights, you were the one who decided we would hold the castle as much as we could. You were always in the front, leading us forward. Mathilda and I just one step behind, but still behind you. That was our place, supporting you while you lead us forwards._

_You say the Deliverance was all three of us, but sometimes I wonder if you realise the effect you have, the way you inspire others to follow you, to pledge themselves to you and to a cause you believe in? Even more so when Mathilda is beside you, ever your stalwart champion and your support. It is simply something about you—your sincerity, your beliefs, the way you carry yourself, how you strive to make the best of all that you can and to give people hope._

_Did you know, that once I would have done anything for you?_

_I used to think you would do the same for me, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was just what I wished. what I hoped for._

 

The war is brutal.

Fernand has never been to war before, and the harshness of the border is different to the open fields that make up the bulk of Zofia. The air is colder and it bites despite the extra cloak he wears. But he followed Clive here and it is here they are called. They pledged to serve their country and if the country demands their services in a war, then he will fight.

Still, it wears on him. While at the castle they were sent on missions and patrols, it is nothing like the constancy of war, being far from home while waiting for battles to happen, the slow pace at which they march forward and fall back.

Fernand knows they are fighting a losing war; he can see the signs of it. Their casualties are higher, their leaders inexperienced and fumbling, their ranks even more so. Zofia's army was never meant to test its might like this, and even less against an army like Rigel's.

It frightens him, the knowledge that he might die here, that he might never see home again.

Clive is frowning at a letter when Fernand finds him. “Is it Clair?” he asks. Clive shakes his head, folding the letter and putting it away.

“It's nothing important.” he says. But the set of his mouth tells Fernand he is unhappy and worried about something, even if he will not share it now. He has seen it too often these days, in the midst of a war and drought and even in the castle.

“You should rest,” Fernand says. He's tired too, tired in a way that has sunk in bone deep from all this battle, this war and the slow inevitability. Clive shakes his head, but he offers Fernand a weary smile.

“I’m fine,” he says. Fernand eyes Clive, tries to will himself to believe Clive.

“I will pretend I believe you, and you will get some rest tonight instead of trying to figure out a strategy for a battle that we may not fight.” Clive’s smile is more genuine now, and Fernand smiles back. “You don’t have to bear your burdens alone,” he adds, softly. “I am here.”

He turns to leave, but Clive catches his hand. “Thank you, Fernand.” 

Fernand inclines his head and squeezes Clive’s hand. “Get some rest,” he says again, before he ducks out of Clive’s tent.

 

_I used to dream about it, you know. A future. Maybe one where I marry Clair, where the orange trees are ripe with the year’s harvest. But then I also wonder if Clair would be happy to marry someone like me, to marry me. I love her, I do. But it is nothing like those romance stories she is so fond of. It is not the highly impassioned declarations of love and sweeping her off her feet, riding into the sunset with the surety of a romance of a lifetime._

_For me, I think of her in terms of skinned knees, muddy faces and muddier hands, memories of us hiding from her and her tear-stained face. It is helping her look for flowers to make you a flower crown, her adoration of you balanced by her persistence and insistence at being included. Hardly flattering, and a far cry from the kind of romance she wants, where she is a fine lady waiting to be swept away, rescued. She is almost as much my sister as Fier and Fianne are._

_But it's not so hard to imagine, is it? A future where you will come to visit me, Mathilda with you. One where Clair is flying high on her pegasus for fun, where she doesn't take up a lance for war. Fier almost ready to go to court for the first time and Mother fussing over her, Faylan learning from Father, or making ready to join the knights. Maybe even children, be they yours or mine, running through the trees and laughing, the way we used to._

_It sounds like a dream, when we are living in a crypt where we are besieged by monsters endlessly, where we are a revolution in the making, trying to reclaim a kingdom that is falling apart._

_We say Deliverance, Clive. We raise it as our banner, our cause. But what is it we are trying to deliver?_

 

“Deliverance,” he says.

 _Deliverance_. A banner to hold up high, a truth to believe in, a cause to fight for. Fernand can taste it when he says _deliverance_ , find faith when he looks to Clive. They are on the cusp of some kind of revolution, even more so now that Desaix has executed a coup. Mathilda must agree; she is nodding while Clive still looks uncertain.

“Clive, we cannot go on like this.” he repeats. And they cannot. The country is falling apart now, with the news of the king’s death spreading amongst the ranks of the nobility. They need to make a stand somewhere, and Fernand believes that it is here, it is now.

“We must hold the castle,” Mathilda says, decisive. She is already forming strategies, planning ahead for the battles to come. There will be many to come, but Fernand is confident they will manage somehow, if only Clive will step up to rally the rest of the knights. He is the only one they respect enough to rally behind, now that Desaix has made a mess of the kingdom and allowed likes of Slayde to run amok.

“We will have to.” Fernand agrees. “There’s much to do, and we need a leader.” They both look to Clive, who is still looking at his hands. Fernand reaches over and takes them in his, forcing Clive to look up at him.

“Lead us, Clive.” he says. _Give us something to believe in_ , he means. “I will be with you, every step of the way.”

“And I,” Mathilda adds, her own hands resting on Clive's. Clive's hands tighten around his, but he nods.

“Our Deliverance.” he says.

Fernand smiles. 

 

He raises his lance and charges into the fray, certain and sure. They may be outnumbered, but Fernand has faith in the strategies they have come up with. They will hold the castle and rout Desaix’s forces. Clive confided that he suspects Desaix murdered the king, and Fernand cannot honestly say he is too surprised by this.

But then, he’s never liked Desaix, and his tolerance of Desaix only tempered by the fact he was the king’s man.

At the end of the battle, he is weary but they have succeeded in driving off Desaix’s forces, holding the castle for now. It will not last, he knows. But Fernand will take the victories he can, trust that they will succeed because they cannot fail.

The weeks following are easy enough, rallying the men and barricading themselves in hopes of defending the castle. There will be retaliation, but Fernand believes they can hold out.

Until the messenger comes, telling Fernand that his family’s estate is under attack.

He rides home, faster than he has ever ridden before. Lillia is breathing hard, but she keeps pushing. They’re only a few more miles out, and Fernand wonders if he will make it back to save anything at all, or if he is already too late.

“Young master!” His father’s manservant is wringing his hands, and Fernand takes in the scene as the rest of the servants come to him, the dishevelment and the fear and sorrow written on their faces. His heart is sinking even as he dismounts, running towards the manor.

“Where’s my father? Where’s Fier and Faylan?” he demands. The cook shakes her head, her lips a tight line as tears stream down her face.

“The village attacked, and we couldn’t stop them.” One of the maids let out a sob, and Fernand ignores it in favour of running to the playroom, despite the servants begging him not to go. He finds them in pools of their own blood, already drying even as he kneels to examine his sister, smoothing her hair back even as he gathers her close to him.

She is so terribly light in his arms, so terribly still. 

 

_If you want to ask what changed, well. Perhaps you know better than I, because you always paid more attention to these things than I did. Perhaps you saw me breaking even before I did, and perhaps you were right, I never really grieved._

_Clair wept more than I did when she heard, but I keep thinking of the way little Fier used to wait for me to come back, the way she would bring me flowers and beg me to make flower crowns for her. Do you know how still she was, the last time I saw her? Do you know how small a grave can be?_

_I would go back, if I could. I would go back and die with them than do this, to know how it is to live with their loss and their absence. I would go back and unknow this but I cannot. I left them behind to be beside you and I do not know if I am angry at myself for this, for leaving them behind or for choosing you over them._

_But my grief is not yours, and perhaps there is no room for grief with all my anger._

 

There’s a sharp crack of bone as Fernand drives his lance through another Terror. It shrieks but goes down, collapsing with a clatter as Fernand glares at it in disgust. The Terrors are endless down here, and Fernand takes his anger out on them as they crawl around the Catacombs. It would be better than trying to stay in the same room as Forsyth and Python or any number of the men that had come flocking under the banner of the Deliverance.

It’s not their fault, he knows. But it is overruled by the side that says that everything was the fault of the people. The loss of his family, the loss of Zofia Castle, the drought, the fact that they have resorted to hiding in dank tunnels crawling with monsters. The people, the peasants, who know nothing of the issues that have plagued the country, who care for naught but their own problems and blaming others for it.

Clive is the one who comes to find him, to uncurl his fingers from around the lance, to wrap his arm around Fernand’s shoulders. Fernand bristles, trying to shake free of Clive’s hold but Clive is persistent, his grip firm.

“You don’t have to be alone, Fernand.” Clive’s words are soft, soothing even as Fernand glares at him.

“What do you know?” Fernand’s tone is vicious, even as he pulls out of Clive’s grip. “You aren’t. You’re fine, you still have everything!”

And Clive just looks at him, sad and earnest and Fernand wants so much to punch Clive, in a way he hasn’t since they were children.

“You have me.” Something inside Fernand twists in anger, that Clive dares to say this when he is more preoccupied with courting Mathilda, with his sister, with running the Deliverance. Fernand is not on Clive’s list of priorities and he knows that. It makes something ugly inside of him scream.

“Do I, Clive?” There is something heartbreaking in Clive’s face when he says that, and Fernand ignores it in favour of the anger that flares inside him, sharp and bright.

He leaves Clive behind, returning to camp on his own.

 

The clash of lances rings, vicious in a way that has never been before. Fernand doesn’t spare a glance for Clair’s cry; Clive will not go down easily, has never gone down so easy. Clive charges again and Fernand deflects it, all too familiar with how he moves as they pull away again, and Fernand laughs, an ugly sound. 

“You don’t know who you serve, Clive.” He knows his smile is ugly, and Clive flinches, like Fernand’s words hurt more than their exchange of blows. He pulls back to regroup with the rest of their forces, forming battle lines.

Then the horn, the sound of a charge as they engage the army that forms the Deliverance. Some of them are absurdly easy to take down, and Fernand is vicious as he streaks across the battlefield. 

“Fernand!” Clair swoops before him on her pegasus, halting his progress.

“You dare face me, Clair?” he demands.

Clair’s expression is defiant, the same expression she used to wear as a child when he’d told her no. “If I must!” Her grip on her spear is too tight, and Fernand knows exactly how to disarm her.

“Then I hope you are prepared to lose.” Clair’s eyes flash, even as Fernand charges her, their lances clashing with a sharp noise that is lost on the battlefield.

 

_Do you remember when the orange harvests would come in? That time when the air was sweet with the smell of them, the summer we climbed the trees and ate so many we gave ourselves stomachaches, how we fell out of the tree and you broke your wrist?_

_I remember thinking you were going to die, the way you were cradling your hand and moaning in pain. I still remember how scared I was, trying to scramble down the tree to your side. I remember how Clair had wept, her certainty that this would be the end of us. I was sent home early and you were confined to your room for the rest of the summer, and you could not even write me because you had broken your wrist. It felt like the end of the world._

_Then we grew up and went to war and I remember thinking this again, that you were going to die, this time because you were too honourable in the face of men with no honour, that I would have to take your body back to your sister and parents and explain why I had failed to protect you, why I had survived when you did not._

_The thought of it scares me more than I know how to say. I prayed so hard for us to both return, or at least for you to return because there was so much waiting for you. And, I now fight the war opposite you._

_It almost terrifies me to think that I will have to face you, that I might be the one to strike you down. I am so angry with you now, but perhaps our paths have diverged too far for me to keep following you. I would explain to you, but you will not hear me, and I am tired of trying to make you believe in things you refuse to see. Your Deliverance is not my Deliverance, the things we believe in not the same._

_It is almost inevitable that I will have to raise my lance against you. Still I hesitate, and I wonder how much that will cost me._

 

Lillia nuzzles against him, but he knows she is looking for the apple he has stowed away. He lets her nose it out of his pocket, rubbing her long face as he sighs. She has followed him here and she doesn't like the hard ground and sharp stones of Rigel, compared to the gentle slopes and wide fields of Zofia. But she is always happy to see him, and that's more than he can say of many people now.

He doesn’t notice Rinea coming up behind him, until she is next to him.

“She’s lovely,” Rinea’s voice is admiring, even as Fernand whirls around.

“Lady Rinea!” He manages to bow, even as she flushes and shies away. He still knows how to behave himself in a court, even if they are less a court and more a kingdom at war these days. 

“I hope you are well, Fernand.” Her voice is kind as she bobs a curtsey.

“I am, thank you. Yourself, my lady?” Her smile looks pained, and Fernand wonders if she’s argued with Berkut again. Berkut has been irascible and even more difficult than usual of late, but Fernand supposes it is to be expected. The memory of the losses sting Fernand’s pride as well, but he is still here. There are more battles to be fought, but he is uncertain of the way the are proceeding, even more so now that he is in the heart of Rigel, witness to the measures that Jedah seeks to employ, even if Berkut refuses more often than not. It unsettles him in a way he cannot explain, the way the Duma Faithful seem to have a hand in every part of this war.

“Well enough.” she answers, diplomatic. She turns to his horse, who is eyeing her curiously. “May I?” she asks. Fernand nods, and Rinea reaches to stroke Lillia’s neck.

“She likes it if you rub between her ears,” he offers.

“What’s her name?” Rinea reaches to rub between Lillia’s ears, and Lillia whickers in pleasure, gently bumping her nose against Rinea.

“Lillia.”

“What a sweetheart.” Rinea pulls away, the motion almost regretful. Lillia butts her head against him, and he reaches up to resume rubbing between her ears. Rinea watches them in silence, her face wistful.

“Are you quite alright, my lady?” Fernand asks.

“I don’t know.” The words slip out, and Rinea looks shocked by it, hands flying to cover her mouth. “My apologies, the war has been rather difficult.”

“It has been trying for all of us, my lady.” Fernand can offer her this kindness, at least. “It will be over soon.”

“We can hope.” The look in her eyes is pained, even as she smiles bravely.

Fernand wonders if she hopes that Rigel will win or lose the war, wonders at the consequences of it. He wonders if the Deliverance will succeed, even as they march ever closer to Rigel Castle.

 

_You asked me once how could I believe so much in you, and really, it was such a stupid question. I believed in you more than I believed in myself; I always have. Since we were children, I have always half a step behind, always looking to you. The only thing I have ever been better at you at is this—faith. In you and the strength of your convictions, in my ability to catch up to you one day, to be your equal, to stay by your side. I have followed you to war and back, fought at your side for all these years. I entrust my life to you each time we ride out._

_Even now, I cannot imagine a life without you._

_You ask me, how can I believe in you, when you cannot believe in yourself?_

_I ask you then—how can I not?_

 

The halls echo as he makes his way further down into the bowels of the castle. He hasn't been here before, but Fernand forges onward. He needs to find Berkut, inform him that the Deliverance is at their doorstep now, that perhaps it would be wise to offer a truce or a surrender.

The temple of Duma unsettles him, but it is the only place Fernand has yet to look. The sight that greets him only unnerves him further.

“Lord Berkut?”

He is kneeling before the fire as Fernand takes in Rinea's dress, the way Berkut seems to be cradling her. But she is not there and he can feel the fear and dread coil in his stomach as the magic circle forms. And Fernand understands, knows what Berkut has done, understands even as he starts to move back, away from Berkut and the flames that seem to be consuming him, away from the unearthly laughter that fills the hall.

Berkut's face is terrifying, the absence of Rinea even more so. The fire flares brighter and he can make her out, now a Witch emerging from them. Her face is twisted in pain and Fernand can only look at her in horror. But then she is coming for him and he can only feel fear and dread.

Then _pain_ , so much pain.

 

It _hurts_.

It would be so easy to give in to the pain, to say it is too hard to keep going. It would be so easy to just lie down, let it consume him without pushing himself further.

But Fernand keeps going. The dungeon entrance is not much farther now, and he has to warn Clive about Berkut, about Rinea. This is not something any of them know how to face. A fallen god is still a god, even mad and insensate as Duma. They are but human, painfully frail and fragile, and Fernand is painfully aware of this now.

In the end, what has he gained? Perhaps there is nothing waiting for him at the end of this, perhaps he won't even be able to apologise to Clive for all that has happened.

Still, he must try. For when he failed his people and his family, where he has disappointed Clive and Clair, where he let Mathilda and himself down. It is hardly enough atonement for all his failings and regrets, and he is so tired now.

But he believes in them, in the Deliverance they had started, in the truth of their cause and their determination to see it through. He believes in Clive in a way he has never believed in himself. So he will try, perform this last act of faith.

Perhaps they will be able to deliver this world.

 

_Do you remember when my father used to take me with him when he went to conduct business? We used to sail over the seas, my hair stiff with salt and my face windburned, but how I used to love it._

_Do you know how shipwrecks happen, Clive? Ships run aground, or into rocks. Ships that cannot make it back to sea, or take on water faster than you can imagine. The hold fills and floods, ankle high then knee high. Crates float as you try to make your way up to deck, where they're offloading any cargo they can so maybe the ship will float, so it won't sink. Sometimes you can hear the wood creaking and giving as the tide rushes in again, slamming against the hull, the bow, anywhere at all._

_Maybe that was us, and our Deliverance. Or maybe it was my faith in you, in all that we believed in. Run aground, then slowly beaten at until I gave in, until I broke from the relentlessness of our losses, our failures._

_We keep marching forwards in the paths that we believed in, fearless and certain that we were doing our best for Zofia. But when Zofia failed us, we kept going. When our own efforts failed us, we persisted. I believed so much that we were on the right path, our cause true and our purpose certain._

_Strange how quickly it all changed, in the end. You went ahead without me; you and Clair and Mathilda. You brought your beliefs to bear and tested it against Rigel, now you march upon the capital while I write you yet another letter you will never read._

_I once promised I would remain by your side, but you have Mathilda now. There is no room for me, so perhaps it is just as well. She will be good to you, be what I cannot be._

_I think about the road you have taken here, the place where I split off from you to forge my own path. I know my regrets and my apologies, but I will not burden you with forgiving me again. You have always been too forgiving of me and my failings._

_I am so tired now, but I still believe in us, in the knights of Zofia, in the Deliverance we built in the flickering of candles and battles for what we used to dream of. I believe in your ability to keep onwards, to keep walking the path you have chosen._

_Perhaps this is what faith really is, what faith truly looks like. Unfaltering, unwavering._

_Our Deliverance._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always deeply appreciated! You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ewagan), possibly crying about fernand again.


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